


Out of Time

by FirstFanGrrl, Mumf



Series: RP Based Fics [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Romance, Romani Characters, Time Travel, Werewolf, Yandere, mature - Freeform, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FirstFanGrrl/pseuds/FirstFanGrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mumf/pseuds/Mumf
Summary: All she ever wanted was to get out of class. So how in the hell did she end up in the Middle Ages? To add to her list of problems, she's got an obsessed king, a high strung knight, a grouchy exiled guard, an assassin with a secret, and an eccentric gypsy all vying for her very short attentions. How could it all have gone so wrong?





	1. The Late Bell Has Rung

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any and all late updates for this story as it's still in the writing process. A lot of time and scripting goes into the plot, so please be considerate and patient with development.  
> Thank you for your understanding.

Helen sighed as she sat through another day of her math lecture. She taps her pen impatiently against her desk, waiting for her teacher, Mr. Sanchez to finish his never ending speech on whatever boring topic they were learning that day; not that she really paid any attention anyways. The day was hard to discern between the other equally long and strenuous ones that always came. By now, Helen was a senior in high school, she knew this better than anyone.

  
        The bell rings. Students rise from their desks, packing their books into their bags as quickly as they can while filing out of the room like a rushing river, all too eager to gain some sense of freedom. Helen hangs back and waits for the crowd to disperse before moving in, her bag light as she really only carried her one large binder with her agenda to keep her due dates organized. She walks down the bustling hallways, painted a dull, chipping grey on the concrete walls; they were always covered with motivational posters, or cheesy school newspaper articles written by the kiss-ass kids who just wanted a higher grade and an impressive resume for college.

  
        It was always the same. She sighs, but she saw across from her, the dim, aging hallway of the school that no one ever dared to venture. There was an urban legend going around the school campus that was older than even she was, that the hallway itself was haunted. Helen nearly chuckled to herself at how silly the idea in its own was, but... the idea of skipping class was quite tempting.

  
        Her next lecture hall (as she liked to see it, anyways) was Sociology 101, even more dull and uninspired than her Pre-Calc class she always managed to fall asleep in. Not even teachers dared to go down the ancient, spooky hallway. A kid bumps into her as she moves to walk, mumbling, "Blind bitch," under his breath. She's unaffected, and continues on her way to the hall, intent on missing out on her most enthralling class of the day.

  
        Up close, she could really see why this dingy corridor was out of commission- bleak, bland, probably about as old as the dump of a school itself was; it didn't even have electricity to keep the fluorescent lights working.

  
        Cheapskates. She shakes her head in momentary disapproval and continues walking, further, and further down the hall. It seems to only get darker as the moments pass, as if that was possible. She doesn't stop, though; the late bell had already rung and the last thing she needed was her ass chewed out by Mrs. Bradberry- an old, stingy woman who always smelled faintly of peanut butter and celery.  
        Helen only hesitates when suddenly, all around her, there's only darkness. She pauses, trying to get a feel for the walls, for anything, but only darkness consumes her. She shivers- when did it get so damn cold? Regardless, she continues walking forward. Maybe the joke was on her, that this place really was haunted, and she was a fool for not believing.

  
        How funny would that be? She shakes her head, and almost like a movie cliche, she begins to see a literal light at the end of the tunnel, despite not remembering ever dying.

  
        The light begins to grow in size, and soon she has to close her eyes just to keep from being blinded. She puts a hand in front of her eyes and tries not to wince too hard at the intensity. She takes only a moment to steel herself before slowly cracking her eyes open, and soon she begins to take in details. A forest on her left, or at least the beginnings of it, with trees and their branches gently dancing freely in the wind. On her right, a small stream, slow flowing water and small fish swimming up stream.

  
        Helen hears something in the distance, the sound of... laughter, and muffled voices, of music and people. She hadn't really thought of what she was wearing at the moment, but later, she'd reflect, it would be a burden; a pair of jeans she had thrown on that morning and a button down plaid shirt. Hesitant, at first, but in need of answers, she follows her ears to... a drawbridge? What was this, a Renaissance fair? She scoffs, softly, but audibly.

  
        Of course that would be where she ended up down the rabbit hole. She walks towards the bridge, regardless and enters a small village center. She looks around, as people give her confused stares and almost disgusted expressions. Helen doesn't even hide her sharp glare; the hell were they looking at? Her eyes caught a pair of hazel ones, off in the distance, and she couldn't help but seem confused.

  
        If she looked hard enough, she could make out the blonde man in a crown and cape, holding a scepter at his side. She frowned, in time with his, as he leaned over to the dark haired man at his side, wearing heavy armor. The man nodded, and before too long, she was sent for, being grabbed roughly and pulled up by her armpits.

  
        "Hey!" She shouts, angrily, thrashing about, "What the hell are you doing?" She demands, kicking as they picked her up. The fiery redhead's hair got caught between the joints of one of the men's armor, and she yelps in pain. Long hair was always such a pain to deal with. She was drug down the path, plenty of the other citizens watching the mad woman flailing and fighting blindly.

  
        One guard shoves her into a dim, dark dungeon room, "Shut yer trap already, ye lout!" He hollers, locking her in with the stomach dropping sound of the iron lock's tumblers turning, practically screaming, "You're never getting out of here," at her.

  
        She sighed, leaning against the bars; the walls were covered in mold and mildew, the last thing she needed on her at the moment. Her brown eyes looked around to observe her surroundings, trying to find any way of escape, but her thoughts are cut off by the sound of belligerent, insulting hollering from the prisoners.

  
        "Well ain't ye a pretty lil' thing," one cackled, obviously drunk and missing several teeth. She winced, not responding.

  
        Another prisoner giggles, "If those bars weren't in the way, lassy, you an' me'd be gettin' ta' know each other quite well," he promised. She shuddered in disgust, moving closer to the center of the cell now. Well, this was even further from the answers she needed than when she started. Looking back on it now, she feels ashamed to admit it, but she put her knees into her chest and let silent tears of panic slip down her face.

  
        Where was she? Why was she in a prison? Was she stuck with a bunch of drunks at a Renaissance fair because she wasn't in costume? Was this even legal?

  
        By the time she began thinking about the legality of the issue, she's already pissed herself off, and so she raises her head, cheeks only a little red, and begins demanding to know where the police were. The guards don't even look at her. That really got on her nerves. She snaps again, about constitutional rights and consent of the governed, but once again, not even a spare glance is spent to her. Helen slams her foot against the bars to get some goddamn attention, and this time a guard appears.

  
        "If you don't be quiet and behave, we'll stick your arse in with the drunk louts," he threatens, eyes on hers. He smirks at her sudden change in attitude, and she glares back.

  
        This wasn't going to be the last bit of fight they'd hear from her, not by a long shot. The war had only just begun, and by the end of the day she was planning on escaping this hell hole. It was just a matter of time.


	2. On the Run

  Helen waits impatiently while the day passes. Or, at least she thinks it's day. She can't tell anymore; no natural light flooded in through windows, or holes. The dungeon's only light source was the torches that were bolted to the walls. She hadn't slept in what felt like years at this point, too busy worrying about when or how she'd escape. The iron lock couldn't be picked- she tried, and the guards hadn't fed her yet.       

Good things always came to those who waited. The guard had opened the gate to put her plate down, but in almost a savage desperation, Helen had slammed her elbow into his face and ran. The guards hollered at her to halt, but she kept going, not stopping. She made it out the dark lair of evil that had been her home for some time and booked it down the street. Helen wasn't a religious woman, but she had a moment in her where she prayed to any possible deity to help her. Her feet pounded against the cobblestone, the mass amount of guards and knights behind her; she couldn't tell how many, and didn't dare to turn her head to look, but from the sound of it, there were more than just a few.

Her breaths come out in strained growls, almost. She was wrong, it was night, and the drawbridge was being pulled up. If she didn't get there fast enough, she'd be left stuck in the kingdom. Her eyes close, her breathing slows, but she picks up pace. Thank every lucky star for her flawless track team records. Her heart pounded. It seemed almost like fate, but she ran across the drawbridge just before it was too high to pass. She didn't stop running, not until she was as far away from that forsaken place as possible. Helen panted, catching her breath as she clutched a tree.        

Where in the hell was she? She looked around, but couldn't find any distinguishing features. As she surveyed the forest, her eye caught the faint glimmering of a flame flickering off in the distance. She frowned. Hesitant at first, she began moving towards the light, walking towards it, careful to be quiet. Laughter and the sound of singing, glasses clinking together. She hid behind a tree and observed.

"Glory to the King!" A muscled, tattooed man hollered, a bandana around his head, wearing loose fitting pants. His company dressed similarly, she quickly concluded these were gypsies. Weren't they thieves? Another woman cackled, "Ye, long live the fool; he keeps me cup full a' mead!" The others laugh, and she sees the man she spotted before meet her eyes across the distance.

She stills completely, breath hitching. His eyes were an unreal green, his hair wild and curly. He smirks, "Well if it ain't the madwoman stirrin' trouble," he chuckles, "Yer welcome, if ye don't tell on us to the guards, but someone in yer position probably wouldn't go do that, yeah?" He clarified. Helen frowns, moving closer to them. He holds his hand out, "Name's Ruben, lovely," he grinned. She looked at his hand, carefully putting hers out.

"Um, nice to meet you," she murmured. "So, what's yer story?" He asked. She shook her head, "Nothing important," she said curtly. Ruben laughed, "Awh, lassy scared?" He mused, "I don't bite, usually," he teased. Helen didn't like how this was progressing. She half chuckled nervously, "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just... gonna go. It's been swell and everything. Nice meeting you, Ruben," she waved. He frowned, "Isn't it a little late for you to be on yer own, lass?" He asked. 

"No, I'll be fine. Thanks for the concern, I promise," she didn't feel comfortable. As she left, he frowned, "I never got your name," he called after her. She pretended like she didn't hear him; it was better for her safety. All around her, the forest seemed to whisper to her. Every step she took farter from the gypsy camp, she became growingly aware of how alone she was. Shivering, she clutched herself and looked around. Where was she? Why did she run away from the only sanctuary offered to her? Why was she so fucking stupid?

She sighed and inevitably sat down, too tired to continue walking. Unknown to her, the predators circled her like vultures in the shadows. Her eyes shut, her body slowly shutting down, the world around her tuning out. Wolves in a small pack began to circle her transient body. Before one could get its jaws around her, though, her eyes snapped open to the sound a pained howl.

A torch. A tall man, and a sword in his hand. She looked up to see the back of the man in question as he finished off the wolf that had led the attack, the others fleeing to the shadows. She frowned. He flicked his sword, removing the blood, and turned to her. One of his eyes had an eyepatch over it, and the other was such a dark blue it looked almost black in the low light.

"Are you trying to die?" He demanded, face flashing rage. "What in the hell is wrong with you?" He almost yelled. Helen looked up at him, her legs almost not working as she tried to stand. He only scowled more, sighing impatiently as he helped her stand. She managed to speak, "I, uh, who are you?" She decided to ask. He raised a brow, eyes flat, "Degan. Now are you going to answer my question? Why are you out here with no shelter? Don't you know wolves come out this time of night?"

She shook her head, "I'm not from around here," she murmured. He looked her up and down, scoffing at her peculiar outfit. "I can tell. Do you have a name?" He asked, but it didn't sound like a question, more like a command.

"Helen," she said, moving away from him. He shook his head, "You're going to get killed out here," he murmured, looking around before looking back at her. He scowled, "Do you want somewhere to stay, or are you intent with getting your throat ripped out by hungry predators?" He asked. She thought about it, her eyes leaving his. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for a response.

She nodded, hesitantly. "Um, sure," she mumbled. He grunted, motioning with his head to follow him. She followed him through the woods, trying not to trail behind him too far. His legs were much longer than hers, so she found herself struggling to keep up.

He was too tall, dammit. He led her to his home; a kind of small hut with cobblestone walls and a woven roof. He opened the door for her, inviting her in. She hesitated, but at his mild glare, she inched into the house and let him light the torches in the home. She sat down at the table, folding her hands in her lap. It was easy to tell how he was looking at her; like she was crazy. Maybe she was, for following a strange man to his home, but if he wanted to harm her, he would've, right? She tapped her knee with her fingers anxiously, "Can... can you tell me what year it is?" She steeled herself.

Degan raised a brow, "What year?" He repeated, as if she were asking him what time of day it was. "It's 1545," he said dully, "Today was the King's namesake festival," he explained dully. "King? 1545?" She demanded incredulously. "W-what do you mean? You're joking right? You're still in character?" She clarified, desperately clinging to the idea that this was still just some weird roleplay idea a bunch of nerds came up with. He looked at her, thinking to himself how mad this woman truly was. "Character? No, it's 1545. King's namesake festival," he spat, bitterly, as if he were insulted by the mere mentioning of the man himself.

Helen refused to believe it, "No. No it's 2016," she argued. He blinked at her. "What? Are you daft? Why would you think that?" It was worse than he thought. Why was she not in an asylum as they spoke? She didn't belong with regular folk.

"It's 2016!" She argued stubbornly, "I'm in America and the presidential election is going on, and I skipped class... and..." She lost her train of thought at the very, very confused expression he had. Fuck, it couldn't be, right? This was just a really bad fever dream. She'd wake up and this would all be fixed. He shook his head, "Whatever you say," he grumbled. "Look, it's late. You're a mess, and it's far too dark outside for me to get into an argument about what year it is with you," he sighed.

"The bed's right there," he pointed to the straw mattress with a few blankets on it. She frowned, but went over and laid down. Not even someone as stubborn as her could deny how exhausted she was. Her eyes began shutting, but snapped back open at the feeling of his body pressed against hers. He scoffed, "Don't flatter yourself," he grumbled, having felt her body tense. She scooted away from him some, "I'm not," she spat back tiredly. "Goodnight," she curled close to the wall, eyes slowly closing again.

It was moments later she began trying to recall her room, how soft her memory foam bed was in comparison to the prickly straw under the thick covering. She recalled the grey walls she'd painted with her father, the dark purple sheets on her mattress, the art she'd drawn and hung on nearly every inch of her room. Helen remembered the smiling, bearded face of her father and the agitated eyes of her mother as she berated her for being silly again.

It was a dull, throbbing pain in her chest that began to intensify the more she thought of home, about the dull hallways of her school she was only just surrounded by. How suddenly her world had changed, with no logical reason, no conclusion that could make any sense. She tried to comfort herself that it was just a bad dream, but dreams didn't last this long.

Dreams had endings. Tears slid down her face as she made soft whimpering noises of sorrow, missing her family, her dog, her fucking classmates she had sworn she'd hated the day before.

She missed having small, insignificant problems, like trying to figure out her college major, or what blend of coffee she'd have in the morning. Her body shook softly with the tremors of her silent sobs. Degan didn't seem affected; he thought her mad, anyways, and didn't comfort her. She wasn't worth the effort. His eyes shut, and he only moved closer because the air outside was so cold.


End file.
